


For the Record

by zarinthel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Clint Barton gets a dog, Deaf Clint Barton (with hearing aids), Gen, alternating pov between Clint and Bucky, general winter soldier warnings: ptsd, the Maximoff twins are Jewish and Romani, this is me rewriting age of ultron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-10 19:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7003663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarinthel/pseuds/zarinthel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Holy fucking shit,” said Clint. “You’re Bucky Barnes.” Bucky’s face twisted into something that Clint generously decided to call a smirk.</p><p>“Usually people don’t make the connection until I hold up a picture of him next to my head,” he said. He lost the smirk. “But that’s not why I’m here,” he said. Clint was suddenly very conscious of the fact that he was up against the Winter Soldier with nothing but a batch of untested arrows. “I am in need of assistance,” said the ex-assassin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: I See Better From A Distance/ The Procedure Has Already Started

**Author's Note:**

> There needs to be more stuff about Bucky and Clint being badass snipers together.

Prologue, part 1: I See Better From A Distance

A set of vintage Captain America cards lie against an unmarked grave. There was no funeral, as SHIELD does not tell enemies of the fallen. He sees the blood on the cards, and it is blood on his hands. His heart was not his own when Phil Coulson died, and now it will never be his own. He thinks that it's time to retire. SHIELD can set something up for him. He’s paid his dues. 

He told Tasha first, because she’s Tasha, and she’d kill him if he didn’t. 

“Hey, Nat,” he said, dropping down beside her. “I’ve been thinking.” 

“No, Clint,” she said. “You can’t make a fort in the air vents, it's a safety hazard.” He could tell she wouldn’t report him even if he did it, though. 

“Aww, Nat, would I do that?” He knew she was laughing on the inside. She raised her eyebrows at him. It's a good look, combining fondness with the underlying ability to make him wish he were dead. Everything looked good on Natasha, but not everything was a good look. 

“But actually,” he said. “I was thinking about buying a farm.” Natasha changed absolutely nothing about her body posture, but her eyes suddenly make the Hulk seem meek by comparison. 

“What?” she said. In her voice, it's light and airy. Clint matched her in his intensity, still slumped back with his arms at his sides. 

“Since Coulson died,” he said, “There are no more handlers that meet my standards. I’m thinking it's time to see whether or not SHIELD’s retirement package is actually a myth.” He saw her eyes flinch at the word ‘retirement’. He knew that that wasn’t in the cards for her. She nodded, though. She probably knew his issues with SHIELD’s handlers better than he did, at this point. 

“I always pictured you as more of a city boy,” she said, and he can tell she’s trying the new information out, settling it into her view of the world. 

“Nah,” he said, smiling. “You know me, Tasha. I’m just a circus brat, through and through.” She rolled her eyes at him, and he knew he was forgiven. 

“What are you going to do with a farm, Clint?” She asked, and this time it was just honest curiosity. Clint shrugged, a small grin appearing on his face. 

“What’s that Nat? Can’t picture me with a white picket fence?” She punched him just hard enough that it would bruise in the morning.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s just...something I’d used to talk about, when I was a kid.” He let the sentence hang, unwilling to talk about what had happened to most of his childhood dreams. Natasha would understand. 

“But I think,” he started, a new, _amazing_ thought entering his head. “I think I’m gonna get a dog.”

 

He ended up getting a tree farm, already planted with yew. 

“It’s not a good investment,” the previous owner warned. “If I were you, I’d switch it out for Christmas trees, or willows for those artsy people.” 

“Yeah,” said Clint staring at all of that prime bow making wood. “Sure. Where do I sign?”

“It’s your problem now, Mr. Barton,” said the now very happy retiree. “I’m gonna move to Florida, see if they really let you have gators for pets. Here’s my number, call me if you have any questions!” The old man was practically skipping, but paused for a final word of advice. “Don’t call me with any problems. If it's still an issue, then that means that I had no idea how to deal with it either.”

“Thanks, Mr. Herne.” Clint said. He put the effort in so that it came out as almost sarcastic, but acceptably sincere. The old man winked at him. 

“I wouldn’t worry,” he confided “You seem like the right kind of person for the job.” With that, Clint was finally alone on his new property. He had considered getting points with SHIELD by using their considerable resources to find a good place, but had decided that the paperwork wasn’t worth it. Instead, he had turned to his most trusted resource, google search. Now, he was the proud owner of a house in the middle of a tree farm. Look at him, back to navigating the wide world on his own again. This was reminding him more and more of when he was seventeen. 

His stomach grumbled. 

“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “Pizza it is.” He called the nearest pizza place, fully prepared to have to pay extra to have it delivered to his new digs. However--

“You can’t deliver my pizza because there is an animal in the middle of the road,” Clint repeated. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the person on the other end of the line. “No deliveries are being made until the road is clear.” 

“Can’t you just,” Clint flicked his free hand, “tell it to shoo?” He watched the keys he had forgotten he was holding sail up into the air. “Shit.”

“Um,” said the poor guy stuck on the other side of the phone. “If you want, I can take your order, and it will be ready by the time you drive here?” Clint sighed. But-- there was no food in the house and he wanted to eat, so. 

“I’ll take one large pepperoni with extra cheese,” he said. “My name’s Clint Barton.” The pizza guy repeated back a string of syllables that might have been his name. 

“Sure,” said Clint. “Be right there.” Then he hung up, and glared at the ground. Hawkeye can’t even find his own keys, he thought. If Kate were here, he would never hear the end of this. 

 

Almost an hour later, he finally made it to the pizza joint. 

“Hey,” said Clint. “I ordered a pepperoni pizza?” The cashier nearest to him didn’t even glance up from his phone, casually yelling,

“Heyyy! Customer!” To the people in the back. Five minutes later, Clint’s pizza was safely in his possession. 

“Come again, Mr. Blargon!” Clint vaguely nodded in reply as he got back into his newly bought piece of shit car, shoving the pizza in the backseat as he drove back home. He thought he heard something moving in the back seat, but his aids had been on the fritz lately. It was probably just static. 

He parked in the gravel driveway, the smell of pizza filling up his entire car. Reaching back for the box, his hand instead came into contact with something very hairy. Clint yanked his hand back, reaching for the bow and arrows that he no longer carried. However, all he heard was a short _woof._

Looking into the back seat, it was clear that the dog had already gone to town on Clint’s pizza.

“Dammit,” Clint muttered. “All I wanted was some pizza, is that to much to ask?” The dog pricked its ears up and bounced over to Clint. It’s breath smelled like pepperoni. “The _pizza_ ,” groaned Clint. “I was talking about the _pizza_ , not you, you dumb dog.”

The dog growled at him. 

“Yeah,” said Clint. “Now I’m talking to you.” The dog took another bite out of Clint’s pepperoni pizza with extra cheese. “If you did that to Natasha,” Clint pointed out, “she’d skin you and wear your fur as a hat.” Very slowly and with careful eye contact, the dog licked its tongue all over the rest of the pizza. 

“That’s what I thought,” sighed Clint. “I get no respect around here.” The dog looked at him, as if to say, _where exactly_ do _you get respect, pal?_

“Nowhere,” said Clint. “These days, I don’t even get to eat my own pizza.” The dog perked up again at that last word. 

“Pizza,” said Clint again. The dog again turned to him. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Who the hell names their dog Pizza? Doesn’t anyone have any imagination these days? Shoulda just named you Spot.” The completely yellow dog wagged its tail at him. It had, Clint noted, no collar. And it did seem sort of ratty. Maybe its previous owners hadn’t been treating it right. Maybe he’d just keep it, for a couple of days. See if anyone came looking.

Clint picked up the ruin of his dinner and brought it to his front door, fumbling the key into the lock and shoving the door open with his shoulder.

“Check it out, Pizza,” he said, gesturing with his foot. “It’s not much, but it's home.”

Pizza barked at him, and ran inside, where she promptly started sniffing everything in sight. 

“Oh, well,” said Clint. _I hope she’s potty trained._

 

The next day, he called Natasha. 

“I did it!” he said, not caring that he sounded more puppyish than his actual dog.

“Clint,” said Natasha. “At my current whereabouts, it is 4 am in the morning.”

“Um,” said Clint.

“But as it happens, I am on an all night stakeout and wasn’t sleeping anyway. How’s the house hunt going?” Clint exhaled, shaky from the sudden adrenaline surge. 

“Yeah, actually, it's going pretty well. It turns out there are these things called tree farms-- Have you heard of them? People plant trees and then sell them. It’s crazy.”

“As it happens,” said Natasha, “I did not know that.” The fun thing about Tasha was the fact that she was genuinely interested in what he was talking about, if only because she liked knowing everything about his life. 

“So I bought one,” said Clint. “It’s a yew farm, and I’ve been wanting to go back to making my own bows for a while now--”

“You already bought it?” 

“I ran a background check, Tasha. Both on my own and through SHIELD. Its clean.” Clint gave her the address and the previous owner, so that she could run her own checks. 

“It’s a good location,” Clint said. He knew that she’d translate that to what he actually meant-- it was as secure as a civilian house could be expected to be. 

“Target confirmed, on the move,” said Natasha, her voice muffled as she switched back into work mode. 

“Visit when you have the chance,” Clint told her. “Don’t make me call Kate.”

“You would call her anyway,” Natasha said. She was probably rolling her eyes at him, like the high class femme fatale that she was. Then came the click as she hung up. 

Pizza bumped into his leg as she nosed around, looking for food. 

“There’s no food here, bud,” said Clint. “You ate it all, remember?” Pizza gave him sad doggy eyes. “You know I’m a superhero, right?” She wandered away. “Little kids dress up like me for halloween.” He took a closer look at her jaw, which was moving. “Wait, shit, what did you find to eat, there is literally nothing edible left in this house, open up you stubborn dog--”

Ten minutes later, he was holding something in his hands that might be salvageable as a rag. It was purple, and very familiar. 

“This is my shirt, isn’t it.” The dog gave him a look, something along the lines of _not anymore._

“Don’t be a smartass, Pizza,” said Clint. It was probably a good thing that there was no one around to witness him constantly losing verbal duels with a dog. His stomach growled again, reminding him that he really did need to eat. 

He pulled a sketch pad out of one the the piles of stuff that he should probably actually put away at some point. 

“We’re gonna get something to eat, and then you’re gonna do your business while I come up with some new arrow designs to try,” Clint said. Pizza barked at him. “Yes, yes we can order pizza again. I like the way you think.”

 

Prologue: part 2: The Procedure Has Already Started  
_Two Years Later..._

The asset stared at the face of James Buchanan Barnes, his smile immortalized in black and white film. He pulled out a notebook, and began to write. 

_My name is James Buchanan Barnes._

He doesn’t know what to put, after that. What kind of things are so important that he needs to make sure he never forgets them?

_Don’t kill Steven Grant Rogers._

He tapes a picture of Steve to the next page. The asset realises that more than one notebook will be necessary. One for his memories of the man he once was. One for memories of Steve. The asset considers this. Three would be better. One for Bucky Barnes. One for Steve. One for the Winter Soldier. 

He heads out to obtain the mission objectives. In the end, he puts three pieces of information in all of the notebooks, in case he loses one. 

_My name is James Buchanan Barnes._  
_Don’t kill Steve Rogers._  
_Current mission objective: Make Amends._

The asset considers writing the three sentences on his skin, but refrains. It would do no good, as he will not look at himself unless coerced. The asset considers the best way to complete the given mission. Due to the broadness of the mission statement, sub-missions will be required. 

Sub-mission 1. Regain and retain memory of previous actions. The asset knows that most of his memories will be highly unpleasant. However. Unpleasantness is a fact of life. The asset would like memories of Steve to also be a fact of life. 

Sub-mission 2. Destroy HYDRA. The asset likes this sub-mission. However. Priority to sub-mission 1, as memories of HYDRA plans and bases will be necessary for sub-mission 2 to proceed. 

Sub-mission 3. URGENT. Make sure Steve is not dead. Reckless idiot. Make sure bugs and tracker previously placed on Steve’s person, suit, and shield are working properly. Find a way of checking in on Steve even when the asset is not located in New York. 

Sub-mission 4. Track down the loved ones of the people he has killed. Offer assistance or aid if necessary. Any reparation short of death or torture is acceptable. Correction. Any reparation short of Steve or this body’s death or torture is acceptable. 

The asset prepares to go outside into the snowy streets of New York. He wraps his blue scarf around his neck and pulls it over the lower half of his face. It is like his mask, but soft and blue. It is much better than his mask. The asset had previously tracked _that idiot_ Steve Rogers back to his new apartment when he was prematurely discharged from the hospital. He will go there now, before he leaves to complete his other sub-missions. It is inconvenient to be without people to keep tags on Steve and report on him when the asset cannot be there. 

At Steve Roger’s new _ugly_ minimally furnished apartment, Steve Rogers is sitting by the window, moping. The asset has now received visual confirmation that Steve cannot take care of himself, and will get himself assassinated. Steps must be taken before the asset can leave New York. 

_Let's hear it for Captain America!_ The asset hears inside of his head. Confirmation that James Barnes also understood the asset’s current dilemma. The asset writes down that phrase in the Bucky Barnes notebook. 

The asset is aware that Steve is currently being watched over by fellow Avengers, Sam Wilson and Natalia Romanoff. They are both very capable, even if they could not take him down. However. The asset wants status reports. What kind of person provides status reports. 

The asset leaves the area where Steve lives, looking for a bar with heating. Bars are places of local information. They also trigger pleasant memories. The asset likes bars, when they’re not to crowded. The bar that the asset finds acceptable is called Luke’s. The bartender is a black man who cleans the shot glasses with the carefulness of someone who could easily shatter glass with a little too much pressure. Identified as: dangerous. Threat status: unknown.

“I’ll have a drink of whatever’s cheapest,” said the asset. Blending in is important. Taste is irrelevant. The bartender smiled while he was pouring the drink. 

“You know,” he said. “You remind me of someone else who comes in here, always ordering the cheap stuff.” The asset feels remorse for this person. They must have a terrible life.

“I’m sorry,” the asset says. The sentiment is genuine. 

“Yeah,” says the bartender. “Me too.” The asset takes a sip of the provided drink. It is, as expected, terrible. “The name’s Luke,” says the bartender, after the silence as stretched from seconds to minutes. “Luke Cage.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. The asset is careful to keep both of his hands out in the open.  
The bartender places the card in front of the asset. Using his flesh hand, the asset picks it up. 

HEROES FOR HIRE, it reads, and gives a number to call. The asset flips the card over. On the other side, it reads: ALIAS INVESTIGATION. Another number is provided, along with an office location. 

The asset meets Luke Cage’s eyes, despite shock trained impulses to the contrary.

“Why are you giving this to me?” he asks. Luke Cage does not look away. 

“You look like the type of man who could use a little bit of assistance,” he says. The asset considers this. Luke Cage is not wrong in his assumption. 

“If I wanted,” the asset has to force out the word, “a status update. On a person. Every month. Is there someone who could do that.” He is using up his words so fast. When will this conversation be over. Luke Cage reaches over to tap the side of the card that reads ALIAS INVESTIGATIONS. 

“The lady that runs Alias is a private investigator. Her name is Jessica Jones. If she asks, tell her I sent you.” The asset nods. Instructions confirmed. A distant corner of his mind nudges at him. 

“Thank you,” the asset says. _Courtesy is important_. Interesting. Neither HYDRA or the Red Room taught him that. The asset overpays for the disgusting swill masquerading as a decent drink. 

_Courtesy is important_ , he writes in the Bucky Barnes notebook. It goes right below the sentence, _Blow it out your barracks bag, you sad piece of shit! Quit beating your gums and help me with this fucker!_

The asset thinks that James Buchanan Barnes was a complicated man. 

The distance between Alias Investigation and the bar is a very short walk. The asset moves quickly, impatient to be able to leave the city. The blue scarf is back to being wrapped around the lower parts of his face. The asset lets the softness ground him. A tool of HYDRA would not wear a soft, blue scarf. 

Stopping just short of the door, the asset inhales, checking for threats. Immediately, he is hit with the overwhelming scent of cheap alcohol. It overpowers everything to the point where the asset cannot tell if there is anyone inside. An effective security tool, though it is likely a side benefit of someone trying to kill themselves through alcohol poisoning. The asset knocks once on the door, waits, then lets himself inside. 

A woman is slumped over on the desk, a half empty bottle of whiskey open next to her. She jerks up shifting into a defensive stance as soon as she hears the door creak open. 

“What the fuck do you want?” She asks. A complicated question. 

“I’m looking for Jessica Jones,” the asset says. He suspects that he has found her. 

“You’re looking at her,” Jessica Jones confirms. “Now. What do you want?”

“Weekly status updates,” says the asset. “Monthly reports.” To have died seventy years ago. 

“Surveillance?” Jessica Jones says. “Right. Do you want pictures?” The asset considers this question. 

“Monthly,” he decides. 

“You got it,” she says. “Okay. What’s her name?”

“His name,” says the asset, “is Steve Rogers.” Jessica Jones's head whips up as she glares at him. 

“I’m not stalking _Captain America_ for you,” she hisses. “The man probably has enough people violating his privacy.” The asset is more than aware of these obnoxious people. It is good that she would not do this on anyone’s say so. He pulls down his scarf, and pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. It is a picture of Bucky Barnes, bought from the museum souvenir shop. 

He flattens it, then puts it up next to his face. The eyes are what do it, he thinks. Even before HYDRA, Bucky Barnes had darkness in his eyes.

He sees the second she makes the connection. Her jaw drops, and she reaches for a drink with shaking hands. 

“Never should have gotten out of bed this morning,” She mutters. The asset disagrees. Today has been very productive. He understands, though. Sometimes you never want to wake up, because you know it will just mean pain. 

“Okay,” she says, pulling out a notebook. “What _exactly_ do you want me to tell you about Captain America? You’ve probably forgotten more about him than I will ever know.” 

“That is accurate,” says the asset. Jessica Jones’s eyes widen in understanding, then ruthlessly suppressed compassion.

“I can’t give you very detailed information,” she warns. “I’m not a miracle worker.” The asset nods, then lets himself shrug. 

“I just need to know he’s okay,” he says. In the end, that’s all that matters. 

He pays for the first three months in cash. 

“I will come back here in three months, to make sure you haven’t been kidnapped by HYDRA,” he tells her. She rolls her eyes at him, and casually smashes her foot through a section of the floor. 

“Don’t worry, James,” she says. “I can take care of myself.” 

The asset lets himself out, humming faintly. It turns out today was a very good day. Sub-mission goals have been achieved. Two different memory fragments have been added to the notebook. The asset does not want to go to sleep. Surely tomorrow will be worse than today. The asset goes to sleep anyway. It is important for function to remain unimpaired during the mission. 

In the morning, the asset catalogues how long it will take for pain levels to drop down to normal baseline. Estimated time: two hours. Time to baseline will be shortened if calories are consumed, and if time is spent in a warm environment. Optimal location: coffee shop. 

The asset dumps sugar into his cup until the coffee no longer tastes like punishment. He gave Jessica Jones access to the tracker on Cap’s shield, so that she can affirm safety from a relative distance. He remembers the expression on her face when he explained how he had gotten the tracker on him. He had then bought himself a fourth notebook, for memories he wants to keep of his life right now. Her reaction will be preserved for as long as those notebooks exist. Yesterday was a very good day. 

Today, he begins sub-mission 2: destroy HYDRA. As soon as this body returns to baseline function, the hunt will begin. In the meantime, the asset flips through the Winter Soldier’s notebook. It is divided into three subsections; Missions, Torture, Other. In the Mission section, the asset has recorded the memories he has of each assassination. Some pages have names, descriptions, charts of where and how the shot was taken. One simply says-- _children._

The Torture section is merely a record of the asset’s nightmares. It is the Other section that the asset turns to now, though. Here is where the asset records extraneous skills he has learned, languages he knows. It is here that he wrote down the name of the red head that he shot. _Natalia_ , the notebook says. Now she goes by Black Widow. The asset thinks that it takes a certain kind of strength to take the name of the organization that twisted you and use it as a superhero name. The Winter Soldier, he thinks, is the code name on a file, a whisper in the dark. He does not know if he could do with it what Natalia did to the Black Widow title. He doesn’t know if he wants to. 

It is also in the Other section where the asset writes down memories of what the happened around him when he was not quite frozen. Though the scientists thought that the frost across his face signalled his return to cryo, his body was more resilient than that. First his metal arm would go cold, and it would send the chill through his shoulder and down his spine. His mind was always the last thing to shut down, as it catalogued the frost burn that warped and healed along the edges of his metal arm.

The name he is looking for is on one of the newest pages of the notebook. He had remembered it merely two days prior. _Wolfgang von Strucker,_ it says. _New experiments involving Loki’s scepter._ They had wanted to use that on him, he remembered. But older heads had won out. _Pain_ , they had said. Magic is unreliable. Pain is eternal. Pain is constant. 

Sokovia, the asset thinks. He will need assistance, preferably someone who has a grudge against the scepter, is capable of infiltration, and understands the benefits of picking people off from afar. 

The requirements combine themselves in his head, and the asset has his solution. The asset cradles his coffee in his hands as he gets up to leave. Today will not be as good a day as yesterday, but it will be a good day nonetheless.


	2. Chapter 1: You And I Remember Budapest Very Differently/ It Always Ends In A Fight

Chapter 1, Part 1: You And I Remember Budapest Very Differently

Clint was really excited to get his new order of prototype arrows in the mail. 

“These ones are going to be awesome,” he bragged. Pizza wagged her tail at him. Over the past two years, Clint had made himself at home, building an archery range that would make an olympic competitor weep. Natasha had also made her presence known, which was why there was at least one weapon in every room and a lot of advanced warning should anyone ever wander onto the property. 

The weapon in every room thing made itself instantly useful when Clint saw the man standing in the middle of his living room. The security system apparently needed an upgrade. 

“Show yourself,” said Clint. His bow was already knocked with one of his new arrows. Nobody but him needed to know that it was as likely to blow up in his face as it was to remain undetonated long enough to reach the target. 

The man stepped into the light. He was an inch shorter than Clint, but he more than made up for it in the way he was built across the shoulders. And he was-- Clint blinked. He was wearing _so many layers_. He had a black duffle bag slung across one shoulder, and under _that_ was a quilted blue jacket over an olive green shirt over a black undershirt. Gloves, cargo pants and combat boots finished off the ensemble, but the part that stuck in Clint’s head was the baby blue scarf. What type of assassin walks around with a periwinkle scarf?

The answer became clear when the man reached up and hooked his fingers into the fabric, pulling it down to hang around his neck. 

“Holy fucking shit,” said Clint. “You’re Bucky Barnes.” Bucky’s face twisted into something that Clint generously decided to call a smirk. 

“Usually people don’t make the connection until I hold up a picture of him next to my head,” he said. He lost the smirk. “But that’s not why I’m here,” he said. Clint was suddenly very conscious of the fact that he was up against the Winter Soldier with nothing but a batch of untested arrows. “I am in need of assistance,” said the ex-assassin. 

“You know,” said Clint, “I’m pretty sure that Steve would be happy to do just about anything you asked him to.” 

“Which is why,” said Bucky Barnes, “I’m not asking him.” 

“Point taken,” said Clint, muscles relaxing minutely. The bow still aimed in Bucky’s direction did not waver. 

“Have you ever heard of a country called Sokovia?” Clint ran the name through his mind a couple of times, then shrugged. 

“Sounds Eastern European,” he said. 

“No shit, buddy,” said Bucky. Clint snorted. 

“Okay, I’m curious. What’s in Sokovia?” Bucky Barnes reached into his jacket and pulled out a folder, setting it down on Clint’s dinner table. 

“Object relocated: The Chitauri Scepter. Previous owner: Loki Odinson.” Bucky’s voice had lost the flavour of New York in favor of a much colder climate. Clint’s breath froze in his lungs. He lowered the bow, and concentrated on breathing. His eyes tracked the threads on Bucky’s jeans while he forced air through his windpipe. In and out, he centered himself. In and out. 

“It just so happens, buddy,” Clint drawled. “That you came to the right place.”

They spread out the files all over Clint’s kitchen table, and had some microwaved pizza while they planned out the attack. Now that SHIELD had dissolved into chaos, both he and Bucky were aware of various locations that they could steal a quinjet from. The determined goal was to scout first, then do a quick smash and grab if the opportunity presented itself. If not, then they would need a whole lot more explosions. 

“I’m gonna need to finish testing these arrows before we get going,” said Clint. “I’m also going to be notifying Natasha that I’m heading out on a trip.” Bucky looked like he was going to argue. “That’s not negotiable,” said Clint, sharply. 

“I was just gonna ask you what the hell you’re gonna do with the dog,” Bucky said. “No matter how much experience I have fighting next to an over eager puppy, it's not coming with us.”

“I’ll figure something out,” said Clint. “So. You staying the night? I’ve got an extra bedroom.” A strange expression flickered across Bucky’s face. “You’re perfectly safe here,” said Clint. “I mean, I promise I won’t try to kill you in your sleep. I’m not that kind of guy.” Mostly. 

“I... accept your offer,” said Bucky. “I...apologize. I was not questioning the security of the room.” It was interesting, Clint thought, that how robotic his new house guest tended to act changed from subject to subject. It suggested memory loss, which he had already known, and brain damage, which he hadn’t known but should’ve. 

“Fuck HYDRA,” said Clint once Bucky was out of the room. Then he went back to talking to his dog.

“Okay, Pizza. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, and I’ve got to get some stuff done before I turn in for the night. Who should we call first? Bark once for Kate, twice for Natasha.” Pizza stuck her cold nose into his crotch. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” said Clint. “Why do I even have a dog?” Pizza licked his jeans. “That’s what I thought,” Clint said. “Tasha tonight, Kate in the morning. Trying to talk to those ladies too close together will just make my brain leak out my ears, and I like my brain where it is.” 

He pulled out his phone made the call. 

“Hey, Nat,” he said. “Is this a bad time?”

“Oh, honey, I missed you so much!” Her voice had a faint upper class French accent. 

“Shit,” said Clint. “I’m so sorry Nat, tell me if you need me to hang up.” 

“I always have time for you, dearest.” 

“I need to tell you that I’m going on a trip tomorrow morning,” Clint said. “I was gonna ask you if you could take care of the dog while I was gone, but I think I’m gonna have to have Kate dogsit.” 

“I’m afraid so, sweetie,” she said. There was some static on the line. Either that or bones breaking. 

“It shouldn’t take more than a week,” Clint told her.

“Shopping? I _love_ shopping! That’s so nice of you to offer!”

“.... I heard that there’s this antique weaponry auction scheduled for next month,” said Clint. “You’re right, it’s been too long.”

“Tu me manques, mon chou,” she told him, hanging up.

“I’m not a cabbage,” Clint said. Pizza looked at him doubtfully. “Which one of us is named after food, huh? Because I’m telling you, it’s not me.” Pizza barked at him. “Shush,” said Clint hurriedly. “Don’t wake up the assassin sleeping upstairs, he needs his rest.” Clint yawned. Actually, he doubted that either he or Bucky was getting any sleep tonight, but sometimes the pretense of normality was all you had to get yourself through the day. 

Clint headed over to the room that he had converted into an armoury. There were bows on every wall, and dozens of arrows in various quivers hung side by side, waiting for the opportunity to be used. You could say they were almost _quivering_ in anticipation. He’s always so hilarious when he should be sleeping. 

He picked up Pizza and climbed up the walls onto the platform that he had attached to the ceiling. When he had first attached it, it had been a bare piece of metal, attached to the ceiling with chains that groaned whenever his weight shifted. However, when he had realized that Pizza also wanted to spend the night up in his perch, he had brought up the first blanket. There was no reason for Pizza to be cold just because her human was kind of messed up and didn’t feel safe on the ground. 

Then, Clint had just ended up bringing more and more blankets and pillows up. By this point, it was more pillow fort than sniper’s ledge. All in all, it was pretty much his favorite place in the entire world. What was Stark Tower in comparison to a pillow fort over an armoury in a house in the middle of the woods? Pizza snuggled into his side. Nothing, that was what. Clint settled in for the night. 

_“You have heart,” Loki says. And Clint is eager to serve. He has never been eager to serve in his life. He actively makes his life harder than it has to be. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, except for doing his best to help Loki. He knows that he is being mind controlled. He just doesn’t care. “Kill Phil Coulson,” Loki says. There is no reason for him to say that. He does not know that name. But Clint smiles anyway. He nods._

_“This is what I need,” he says. In order to kill Phil, he’ll have to go through Natasha._

_“I have confidence in your skills,” says Loki. If only SHIELD had such assurance. He stalks through the winding corridors of the helicarrier, the blue glow of his eyes reflecting of the metal walls. Natasha ambushes him, but she is fighting to subdue. He knows that she would rather die than kill him before the brainwashing can be tested for reversibility. Natasha is wounded, and she loves him. He feels the snick of the bow as it passes through her ribcage. She collapses slowly, and crawls after him while she bleeds out. He is bleeding now, but he cannot stop. He has a mission. He hears her call his name. It is so easy to find Phil._

_Phil’s mouth moves, but Clint cannot hear the words. He knows how to read lips, but he does not understand. He draws his bow, feels the weight of the arrows on his back. Phil Coulson is very good. But Clint is better. Phil’s blood washes over his hands as the world shakes itself apart._

Clint jerked awake. His underwear was sticky from sweat, and he felt cold even next to his furnace of a dog. Slowly, he curled himself back around Pizza, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. 

“Should have known the dreams would come back,” he murmured to her slowly rising and falling stomach. “Damn it.” There was no vehemence in his tone, just weary bitterness. Despite the dream, he was actually really happy that Bucky has decided he was the go to for this mission. The fact that Loki’s sceptre was probably under HYDRA control had been giving him chills since Natasha had disemboweled SHIELD and spilled its guts all over the internet. 

His eyes flicked up to the clock on the wall. Barely more than an hour had passed since the time he had gotten comfortable in the loft. 

“No more sleep for me, girl,” he told Pizza, quietly sitting up so that he doesn’t wake her. “Guess its arrow testing time.” He would need to be back in a couple of hours to make sure that Pizza didn’t wake up and try to jump off the ledge, but that was plenty of time.

He took his new arrows and second best compound bow out into his training area, along with a long distance rifle. Sometimes, the name of the game was _not_ using your trademark. The first arrow he tried was designed to explode once it reached a certain height. He wasn’t exactly sure why he had wanted an arrow that did that, but now he had several, so. He knocked and released the first one. The blowback from the explosion was pretty intense, and even in the cold night air, he could feel the sweat trickling down his skin. The next arrow was a knock out, buzzing with potential. Blue lighting spread out from it with a concussive blast. 

“That one’s a keeper,” said Clint. Sometimes he just wanted a really really amped up tazer. He stayed out till dawn, checking arrows and taking shots. Eventually he shifted over to the gun he’s brought out, checking his sights and ammunition. Then he cut it short. He had to go make sure Pizza didn’t break her neck trying to get down, and then maybe breakfast? 

Definitely breakfast. If Bucky got downstairs in time, maybe he would even share some of it. 

Chapter 1, Part 2: It Always Ends In A Fight

The asset spent the night on the floor next to the bed that had been provided. He had tested out the mattress, but lying down had been an unpleasant experience. The bed was too soft. The sheets were to warm. It is suspicious, to have too many good things at the same time. How can he sleep, when he is waiting for someone to come and take them away?

Answer: he can’t. The asset considered the fact that this mission will require him to chose a name for Clint Barton to call him by. If he says nothing, then Clint Barton will continue to refer to him as Bucky. However. This may lead to false assumptions involving memory and behavior. Also, Bucky is a very recognizable name. Not all of the HYDRA personnel he and Clint Barton plan on attacking will be idiots.

 _Sergeant Barnes_ , he hears. He remembers being called that. Zola called him that. Peggy called him that. Howard Stark called him that, before he died. His memories of killing Howard Stark are vague and distant inside his head. Probability: a wipe was enacted after that mission, instead of the normal cryo procedure. The asset wondered what memories were jarred loose, and if he will ever regain them again. Unlikely. 

The asset listened to his arm whirl and click as he moved it back and forth in front of his face. It was a relaxing noise. All in working order, it said. No need for maintenance. The asset does not like maintenance. He is putting off the choosing of a name. Escapism is not conductive to mission protocol. 

Jessica Jones called him James, the asset thought. The asset has no association with that name. The asset tried out the name. 

“My name is J--” A shockwave of remembered pain hit him. _He thinks his feet are bleeding inside his boots. The floor is metal, and he needs to... he needs to....he needs to tell Steve that he’s okay?_ The asset gasped for breath, then reached for his notebooks. What does he put this under, he wondered. The Winter Soldier: Torture? Bucky Barnes? Steve? He wrote it down in all three, just to be on the safe side. 

Back to the problem at hand. The asset doesn’t want to pick a random name. He wants to use James. So, no more with the _my name is_. Clearly, that isn’t working. 

“You can call me James,” James said. He liked that. Plain, but with a bit of confidence. “Call me James,” he said again, just because he could. 

James spent the rest of the night on the border between sleep and wakefulness, his metal hand tapping rhythms onto the floor as his mind went fuzzy around the edges. It was the smell of eggs that dragged him back into the present, and James’s ears detected the clang of a skillet. It reminded him of something, tickled at the back of his head. Nothing concrete enough to write down, unfortunately. 

He headed out to the kitchen. He had already gotten more sleep than he had thought possible in a stranger’s home. He wondered if he could obtain permission to use the coffee machine. 

He stepped into the kitchen, careful to stomp his feet so that Clint Barton wouldn’t be taken by surprise. _Clumsy retard. Are you sure the damage isn’t permanent?_ James rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. Clint Barton looked up from where he was making scrambled eggs, and waved him over. 

“Hey, dude,” he said. “You made it in time. Any later, and I was gonna eat all of this by myself.” James blinked. It had not occurred to him that Clint Barton’s hospitality would extend past the previous offer of a room. Thanks would be necessary. Another debt acknowledged. James hoped that the eggs would be digestible. His body’s ability to process food was not always reliable. 

“Thanks for the food,” he said instead. His ma didn’t raise no skiver. He leaned against the counter, watching Clint Barton’s weird dog chase her own tail while he ate. It was good, he thought. He seasonings were gritty on his tongue, and egg was soft. 

“So,” said Clint Barton, staring at him from across the stovetop. “I’m gonna call someone to take care of Pizza while we're away, and then were gonna leave before the sun starts to disintegrate the fog.”

“I’ll be ready,” said James. “Permission to use the coffee pot?” He waited for a backlash in case he was over the line. An unknown expression flickered across Clint Barton’s face.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Beans are in the cupboard, instant is next to the sink.” He gestured in a way that encompasses the entire kitchen. “I’ll just-- take my call over there.” James walked over to the coffee machine and started examining it. If it was going to be done in time, then it needed to be done fast. 

While he was doing that, he couldn’t help but overhear Clint’s side of the conversation.

“Hey, Kate,” Clint said. “Can you take care of my dog?” 

“ _No_ , not permanently.”

“Uhm. Sure, why not?” 

“Wait. Dogs can’t eat chocolate?” 

“No, no, you don’t need to come over. I can get someone to drop her off.” 

“Kate, _Kate_ wait a second, don’t do tha--” Clint put the phone down. “Well,” he said to James. “That’s all taken care of.” The funny thing was, he didn’t seem to be lying. 

James nodded anyway. It was none of his business. The coffee machine started to drip. 

Half an hour later, James had a cup of coffee that was worse than the drink he’d had at Luke’s bar, when Clint Barton reappeared in front of him, now dressed in a black and maroon coat with his own bag slung across his back. 

“Let’s go steal a plane!” he said, locking Pizza inside of his house. 

“Reappropriate,” said James, mildly. Clint Barton laughed. 

The location they had decided to raid seemed abandoned in the morning light, with rusted gates wrapped up in old barbed wire. The tire tracks were fresh, though, and the wind had turned. James could smell them, the stink of HYDRA facilities more familiar than anything else he had ever known. It was fear, and arrogance, and chemical burns on metal floors. 

“I think we're in the right place,” said Clint Barton. He spat on the ground in front of him. “I wonder If we’ll find anyone I knew.” 

“Anyone recognizes us, they’re dead.” said James. He had gone to a lot of effort to plant false trails for anyone searching for him. Clint nodded. 

“Quinjet was in Hangar 3 when SHIELD was in control of this facility,” he said. “Let’s get this show on the road.” James assembled his rifle, and settled in to wait for a shot. Beside him, Clint used his own gun. 

“Patrol at 2 o’clock,” James reported. 

“Got ‘em,” said Clint. He shot them in the throat. They choked on their own blood, unable to cry for help. 

“Next ones are mine,” James said as they made their way further into the compound. 

“You got it, Bucky,” said Clint Barton. James’ fingers tightened on his gun. 

“Call me James,” he said, proud that his voice didn't shake. It had come out just like he’d rehearsed it. 

“James,” Clint Barton corrected himself. “Hey James, I’m Clint.” 

“Hello, Clint,” said James, shooting the next two guards through the head. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

“Believe me,” said Clint, beginning to duck and weave as people inside the building finally started taking notice of their assault, “the pleasure is all mine.”

James was careful to keep his running speed only slightly faster than Clint’s. Inhuman running speed would be a terrible way to break cover. Not that there were any good ways to break cover, but. Mission priority. He balanced his gun on his metal arm and pulled the trigger with his flesh hand. The metal plates slid together and clicked as they absorbed the recoil of firing a rifle that had been designed for firing from prone positions. 

He took note of each face he shot, adding them to the tally that he had been keeping for as long as he had held a gun. There would be no black to drown out the red of his ledger, only names and faces, lists and _children_ \-- 

“Getting rusty in your old age?” Clint shouted at him from where he had managed to pull ahead. James grunted and sped up. There were bullets whistling past them, and James was really impressed by Clint’s ability to not get hit. Or maybe it was the coat armour thing that he was wearing. James had been deflecting bullets with his covered arm whenever he couldn’t dodge. 

“Respect your elders,” he told Clint, once again pulling ahead. They both duck into the hangar. 

“Told you it was here,” said Clint. 

“I had no reason to doubt your information,” James said. Clint’s eyes went flat for a second, and he muttered something that sounded a lot like _why is it always the villains who believe in me_ but could be something else entirely. 

A gas canister exploded through the hangar window, and they were definitely out of time, as more followed behind it. Clint swore and put on an extra burst of speed while reaching back into his quiver. James considered mentioning to Clint that he did not appear to have a bow in easy reach, but instead decided to save his breath. This turned out to be a wise decision, as Clint jammed the arrow into the access key of the quinjet, initiating a general override. 

“Get in the jet, loser,” said Clint, grinning despite the gas and bullets whirring past his ears. “We’re going _hunting_.” James rather hastily slammed the door shut behind him as Clint brought the quinjet roaring to life. 

James grabbed onto the wall as Clint started evasive maneuvers to keep HYDRA from being able to follow them. The plane’s tracker’s had already been disabled. It would be easier, James thought, if he could just strap himself in. But that wasn’t going to happen. Looking through the screens he could see the HYDRA agents small as ants, scurrying back and forth. James was satisfied with the amount of exposure they had gotten. Two skilled gunmen, one in dark purple, one in dark blue. It was an acceptable amount of information to leave behind. 

James feels the quinjet do another loop through the air. He is almost certain that not all these loops are necessary for losing tails. He can hear Clint laughing, light and breathless as he runs his mouth. 

“Can you follow _this_ , you fucking assholes.... C’mon, drop dead already...” It grounded him, among the metal and the scraps. This is not a cage, he reminded himself. It’s too big, too warm. It thrummed under his feet. James decided to track down the armoury. It was a HYDRA quinjet-- of course it had an armoury. 

There was a HYDRA symbol painted on the armoury door. James came to a stop in front of it, then pulled out a knife and began to use it as a paint scraper. He should be able to ignore it, James thought. The symbol had no bearing on the mission. This action would cut into his time re-equipping himself. 

James continued to chip flakes of paint off of the door. He was gouging the metal, he realized, leaving lines and cuts for each tiny bit of red that dropped to the floor. He sped up, striking at the metal until all that remained was an unrecognizable mess. Then he let himself in. The armoury itself was a thing of beauty-- it’s walls were covered in gun racks, with ammo and explosives lined up along the sides in neatly labeled rows. 

James pulled his scarf back up around his mouth as he started looking for where the rocket launchers were kept. _My name is James Buchanan Barnes_ , he thought. _Mission Statement: Make Amends._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: It Doesn't Matter What You Did/ But I Did It


	3. Chapter 2: It Doesn't Matter What You Did/ But I Did It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Maximoffs.
> 
> warning: romanii slur used by HYDRA asshole.

Chapter 2, part 1: It Doesn’t Matter What You Did

Sokovia was cold and wet and _miserable_. Clint didn’t know what else he had been expecting. James, the bastard, didn’t seem to be affected at all as they walked through the snowy streets of Novi Grad. In the distance, a fortress built into a steep hill loomed against the grey sky.

“You know,” Clint said. “Once you get here, the HYDRA base is pretty obvious,” 

“That means they have better ways of preventing attacks,” James said. 

“You’re a real wet blanket,” Clint sighed. They walked for the next couple of minutes in silence. Clint catalogued the arrows that he’d brought with him, fingers tapping across his arm as he reviewed each one’s various specs inside his head. Single notch, double notch, triple notch, shallow notch, deeper groove. He knew how they felt, how they moved, how they sung in the air as they flew. It was the first type of music that he could ever remember hearing, and by now the sound had been ingrained in his bones. 

He wanted to turn off his hearing device, to attune his heartbeat with the clicks of James arm, the bang of the rifle, the twang of his bow. Instead, he asked a question that had been nagging him since he noticed James’s reaction to the HYDRA symbol on their reappropriated quinjet.

“Are you sure you’re okay with dressing like a HYDRA minion?” Clint was well aware that James’s sanity was less of a sure thing and more of a work in progress. James’s steps faltered for a second. 

“I never--” he stopped and started again. “The scientists, they... they liked looking at me. At my arm.” He gave a very forced shrug. “Don’t cut me out of it once I’m wearing it, and there shouldn’t be any problems.”

Which didn’t really answer Clint’s question, and also supplied him with a million more questions that he was absolutely certain he did not want the answers to. You’d think he’d have learned from Natasha, but no. 

“Great,” he said instead. 

As they got closer to the fortress on the hill, it became clear that the base was extremely active, with trucks of materials going in and out, each one staffed by at least one guard holding something that looked, if Clint wasn’t mistaken, a lot like a Chitauri gun. 

“We are definitely in the right place,” Clint told James. “No one but an evil organization would be stupid enough to use alien weaponry powered by a different alien weapon.” James’s lip twitched. 

“Bunch of fucking chuckleheads,” he agreed. Or at least, Clint thought that sounded like an agreement. Snow crunched under their boots as they made their way through the forested road that separated the fortress from the rest of the capital city. 

“I’m going to remember this the next time you point out that two men on foot are less obvious than two men in a stolen car,” Clint said. 

“You’re going to remember that I was right?” James asked. Clint chose to rise above that statement. A few seconds later, James cocked his head to the side. 

“I hear a convoy coming up,” he said, looking around. “This place has as good sightlines as any.”

“I call the pine tree at 3 o’clock,” Clint said. James glared at him. Clint wasn’t sure if James was aware of exactly how scary his murder stare was, but Clint had looked through the threads of the tapestry of the universe and simply seen the next man he needed to kill. He wasn’t giving up his spot. 

Clint sprinted for the tree, and climbed until he found a branch that gave a better view to concealment ratio than some professionally designed sniper platforms. Thus situated, he waited for the convoy to finish rattling its way into view. James was nowhere in sight, so clearly he’d managed to find somewhere else to position himself. 

Clint let his mind go quiet. In and out, he breathed. In and out. He pulled back the bowstring as the convoy truck entered his vision. _Wait_ , he thought. In and out. In and out. In and the arrow pierced right through the reconstructed Chitauri armour. The dead man’s hands spasmed on the driver's wheel, his weight sinking into the gas pedal. The truck veered wildly to the left as Clint nocked another arrow, readying himself for the next strike.

The Winter Soldier burst out from underneath the snow and launched himself at the back of the truck, smashing a fist through the back window and shoving himself inside. Holding only a knife, he sidestepped the first goon to come at him, slipping the knife in between the armour plates and twisting until blood filled up the goon’s lungs and he dropped the gun, fingers desperately scrabbling at the blood bubbles coming from his chest. 

Clint dropped the third and fourth ones as they cowered away from James, aiming their guns blindly at the visible threat. 

“Did we get them all?” He called down to James, nocking another arrow just in case. 

“Confirm,” said James. “All targets neutralized.” He was looking down at the blood that had spattered on his jacket. 

“This was my favorite jacket,” he said. 

“That’s your only jacket,” said Clint. “You can use my laundry machine when we get back, I know a couple of formulas that are great for getting blood out of stuff.” James stared at his jacket, still vaguely irritated. Then he reached for the corpse in front of him and started taking off his armour. 

“This is new,” he said. 

“It’s Chitauri,” said Clint. James looked at him blankly. “It’s from those aliens that attacked New York two years ago,” Clint clarified. 

“Aliens did _what_ ,” James said. 

“The incident with the scepter,” said Clint. 

“Insufficient information,” said James. “Scepter noted to have power over minds, capable of piercing a force field, formerly in the possession of Loki Odinson. Other information deemed unnecessary for scientific study.” 

“Of course it was,” said Clint flatly. “Look, the short of it was that Loki was working with another alien race called the Chitauri, and used the scepter and the tesseract to open a portal to where the Chitauri lived, which the Chitauri used to invade us. We, the Avengers that is, stopped them.” 

“Information updated,” said James. “Thank you.” He liked the taste of those two words on his tongue.

“Believe me,” said Clint. “It was extremely satisfying.”

They helped each other put on the armour, using a combination of pieces of the four different ones laying around in an effort to get pieces that were mostly intact and not covered in blood. Then, all that was left was to get the convoy back on the road. During the fight it had tipped over on its side, and the snow was beginning to melt into water in places where the engine vented heat. 

“With enough leverage, I think we can do it,” Clint said. “Why don’t we try--”

James took a grip on the edge of the vehicle and shoved it back onto four wheels.

“Or we could do that,” Clint said. Superhumans, honestly. 

They drove the only slightly dented convoy truck slowly but steadily up the mountain, stopping at each of the check in points for an inspection. There was nothing to find except for weaponry and a bit of spilled blood, but Clint was pretty sure that that type of thing was the norm for a HYDRA convoy. The fact that James spoke unaccented German also helped. 

Unmolested by security, Clint and James eventually parked their borrowed truck in an available storage area and began to make their way deeper into the fortress. The trick of infiltration is always confidence- act like you know where you're going and people will assume you’re supposed to be there. So, Clint wasn’t worried about being busted before they found the scepter. He was worried about how they were going to get it out. Distracted by this problem, he nearly walked into James when James came to a sudden stop.

“James?” he asked. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“I... thought I felt something,” James said. He flexed and unflexed his metal arm, and Clint listened to the plates slide and click together. “It’s probably nothing.”

Clint hated when he ran into something under the classification of ‘probably nothing’. What it actually meant was ‘I know it was something but I don’t trust myself’. Now on high alert, Clint and James continued down the hall, eyes constantly scanning for threats and hands hovering over their weapons. By now, they had penetrated into the heart of the fortress, and the stairs that had been taking them up had reversed their direction and begun to steer them down. Their footsteps echoed on the floor, and they were alone, for now. It seemed like no patrols went through this part of the base. 

Clint saw a light blue blur out of the corner of his eye. 

“Halt! Wer da?” he snapped out. When in trouble, make the other side defend themselves to you. 

“What’s that, old man?” The blue blur solidified into a youth with silver-tipped hair, whose voice rasped with a slavic accent. “I think you’ll find that you’re the one who’s out of place.” 

_Shit_ , Clint thought. He was speaking English. 

“His eyes,” said James, an edge of horror creeping into his normally expressionless voice. “Look at his _eyes_.” 

Clint did not want to look, but his gaze felt like it was magnetized. The boy’s eyes were as blue as the sky, as blue as the scepter that stole your heart and bent your mind and turned your life’s work against you. 

“How long?” was all he could force past his lips. The kid’s smile was an abandoned amusement park, empty with flickers of horror just out of sight.

“They let me out of my cell just recently,” he said. “I have heard the vibrations that make up the world, and they have sung to me of my duty.” 

“Ну и что,” said James. Clearly, he wasn’t here to make friends. 

The boy moved too fast to see, his fist smashing straight into James's jaw and throwing him backwards through the nearest wall. He locked eyes with Clint as Clint fired an arrow at point blank range. Still gazing into Clint’s eyes, his right hand reached out to snatch the arrow from the air. 

“You thought that would work against _me?_ ” He said, scorn dripping from every word. The arrow ticked, then exploded in his hands. Clint could smell the kid’s flesh burning as he tried to drop the arrow, his hands rejecting the neural impulses that told them to let go. Clint steadily nocked another arrow. 

“Sometimes head trauma is the only way,” he said. “Sorry, kid.” He let the arrow fly. This time Pietro ducked under the arrow, flashing forward and tackling Clint to the ground. The prick of the needle was small in comparison to all the other pain that Clint was feeling, but Clint knew it was the death knell. 

The world blurred and twisted around him as Clint fought the sedative, the adrenaline fueling his desperate thrashings. He stabbed at his attacker, plunging the knife in and twisting only to pull it out again. 

“You...really...don’t...want...to....do...this,” he forced out, each word becoming slurring in his mouth as his tongue began to lose feeling. 

“I know,” said the kid, his glowing blue eyes overpowering the white industrial lights of the corridor. 

Clint felt his muscles become paralyzed, even his eyes unable to do more than stare ahead. The kid began to drag him further down the corridor without further ado, letting the armour Clint was still wearing grate against the floor as he walked. Clint wished he could close his eyes, that the drug had really been a sedative and not a fast acting paralytic. Well, he thought dryly, I know what my next nightmare is going to be about. 

Then a worse thought occurred to him. _Where was James?_

Chapter 2, part 2: But I Did It

Being punched through a wall was really annoying, thought James. He picked himself back off the ground, ready to rejoin the fight, when he felt something behind him. He whirled, reaching for his gun and sending off a burst of gunfire as he staggered backwards. 

The bullets rammed into a wall of red fire, and fell down to the floor. Behind the fire was a girl with dark brown hair. Dark brown hair, and glowing blue eyes. 

“Hello, intruder,” she said. She had the same accent as the boy who had punched him. “I wonder... what’s your worst nightmare?” She twisted her hands, and the fire rushed towards James, covering him till all he could see was red. 

_He felt the iron cuffs that confined him to his chair. He could not remember the last time that he had stood up, though he was sure that at one point he must have done so. He was not born in this chair. Was he born at all? Above him the ceiling was grey. Was the sky grey? He wondered. But no, the sky was blue, the sky was the color of-- the sky was blue, the asset thought. Somewhere, the sky was blue._

_The asset heard them come in, but did not react. They were laughing, huddled together by the control table. One of them had a particularly high pitched giggle._

_“Tell him,” one of the scientists said. “Tell him, tell him, I want to see his reaction.” The rest of the bunch scrambled for recording equipment. They gathered around the asset, glasses and bald patches gleaming in the light. One of them traced a finger down his chest._

_“Such a waste that the scars never last,” he said, sighing wistfully. “I would carve my name onto his skin. Doctor Erskine has lost his life and now his life’s work, but here is mine, it would say. Here is mine, and it will outlast them all.” Doctor Zola patted the scar tissue where his arm met the metal while beckoning one of his lackeys to go get the newspaper._

_Thus retrieved, he brandished the front page in front of the asset’s face. The asset shut his eyes. He did not want to see. Doctor Zola slapped a hand across the asset’s face, quick and brutal. The pain bloomed across his cheekbone, but it was a drop in the ocean. Pain was always, pain was everywhere. He did not want to see._

_“Look,” the doctor said, his voice going sharp with irritation. “Will you live the rest of the life with closed eyes?”_

_Yes, the asset wants to say. He knows better than to say it._

_“Look,” the doctor says again, his voice growing ugly. The asset opens his eyes. In front of him is a newspaper. Captain America Gives Up His Life In Service of Our Nation! The headline reads. Below it is a picture of Steve Rogers, dressed up in those stupid tights. Memorial to be held next Wednesday, a caption reads. The nation mourns the loss of a hero._

_“No,” said the asset. No, no, Stevie, no. He shut his eyes again. The sky is the color of Steve’s eyes, the asset thought. I stood for him, I breathed for him, I was born to drag his skinny ass out of trouble._

_“No,” the asset said again. It was all he could say, and he would be punished for it. I’m sorry, he thought. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, shoulda been there, not Steve, please not Stevie, please not my Steve--_

He woke with his hands around someone’s throat. It was the girl. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his voice rusted and broken. “My worst nightmare? It’s already happened.”

He stared down at her. The blue light in her eyes wouldn’t let her show fear, but the heartbeat that fluttered in her throat said that she was very afraid. He swung her into a sleeper hold and held her until she passed out. He had asked Clint, way back at the farmhouse, about the best way to reverse this kind of mind control. Clint had told him that the best option was involuntary unconsciousness, and waking up with someone who you could use to anchor yourself. 

James looked down at the girl. Now that he had a better look, her bone structure was very similar to the boy with superhuman speed. So, best case scenario, Clint has knocked out the boy, they meet up and find a secluded area to wait for the wonder siblings to wake up without blue eyes. 

First problem. Clint wasn’t here, and James was pretty sure he’d been out of it long enough for that fight to finish up. Second problem. James didn’t want to drag an unconscious girl through an enemy base. Third problem. James needed to find Clint before he got hit with the blue stuff, because Clint does not have an anchor available if loss of consciousness wasn’t enough of a reboot. Second problem deemed irrelevant due to first and third concerns.

James hauls the girl over his shoulder and stands up, cataloging his body for any injuries that have gone unnoticed. His metal shoulder aches, like normal. The bruises from his journey through the wall are almost healed. His throat feels like he’s swallowed razors. That’s strange, he thought. I don’t remember screaming. 

He walked back through the hole he’d made. On the other side, the corridor was a mess. There was a scorch mark on the wall, with an arrow sticking out of it, and another arrow on the floor. A couple feet away from the arrow, the floor was covered in scratch marks and dried blood that formed a path down the hallway. 

James sighed. It couldn’t have been a more obvious trap if they’d left a giant blinking arrow to show the way. The girl groaned softly in her sleep. He’d knocked her out in the safest way he knew how, but that meant she wouldn’t be staying unconscious for very long. He’d just have to spring this trap very quickly. 

He strode further down the corridor, indifferent to how he was perceived. Their cover had already been blown, and he wanted to get out of this base and back to the quinjet, where he had left his scarf. 

Following the blood trail, and he hoped that was not all Clint’s blood because that was a lot of blood to be losing, he ended up standing in front of a closed metal door. He shut his eyes and let himself focus. He listened for echoes, breathed in and tasted fumes on his tongue. He felt-- he felt a buzzing coming from his pocket.   
He reached into the pocket in his cargo pants, trying to keep the girl steady as he unlocked the screen on his StarkPhone. It appeared Howard’s knack for subtlety had been passed down in the family. 

And...there was a picture of Steve shopping for groceries, looking all put together and not like he had discharged himself from a hospital despite medical protest. James could feel his mouth relaxing out of a scowl as he stared at the picture. Below it, Jessica Jones had included a caption. _Still alive and kicking_ , it read. _Weirdo keeps on stopping to look into back alleys._   
Status updates were a very good idea, James thought. _He’s looking for a fight,_ James texted back. Then he put the phone away, even though it had just buzzed again. Now was not the time or place. 

Irritated with his own lapse in focus, James returned his hearing to the echoes beyond the door. Slowly, he began to make out a voice. 

“Pietro,” it said. “Pietro, Pietro, I had such high hopes for you.” The German accent rang in James’s ears, making him flinch back. Mind control and german scientists, he thought. What else had he expected from HYDRA? He slipped his free hand over the girl’s mouth so that any noise she made wouldn’t alert the people in the room of their eavesdropper. 

“I can do better, Doctor List,” the boy-- Pietro? Said. “I don’t need... I don’t need....”

“What you need doesn’t matter, _gyp_ ,” snapped Doctor List, impatiently dismissing Pietro’s words. Fucking Nazis. “All that matters,” Doctor List continued, “Is that you _failed._ ”

“I brought him,” said Pietro, but the emotion was emptying out of his words. “I brought the intruder to you.”

“No,” hissed Doctor List. “You brought the intruder to _Herr von Strucker_. He will be interrogated, your sister is very good at that. But what about me, Pietro? Only two miracles for the hundreds that I have gone through. I have been forced to throw away their corpses, so I could not even thoroughly investigate what the scepter has wrought with their unworthy bodies. Did the intruder not echo with potential? My machines could pick up his resonance all the way from the labs. Truly, you have failed me.” Pietro said nothing. 

Did Pietro not understand german? James wondered. Had Doctor List spent countless years in Sokovia and refused to learn the local language? Both, probably. The important thing was that Clint was with the commander of the fortress, and not being mind controlled or interrogated through magic because Pietro’s sister was right here with him. 

No way to go but through, James thought. Maybe that was something that Steve used to say. It didn’t seem like a memory...but what else could it be? James dismissed his straying thoughts. Mission Imperative: terminate the HYDRA agent known as Doctor List. Mission Imperative: Subdue the brainwashed boy known as Pietro. 

Known danger: Pietro is faster than him. Known danger: unreliable reactions to the presence of HYDRA doctors. Known time limit: The sister will be waking up soon. Known time limit: Clint is in the presence of HYDRA high command. James gently placed the girl onto the floor. Recommended start time: now.

James pulled out one of the guns he’d taken from the quinjet. Letting the weight ground him, he aimed straight at the locked door and fired. There was a huge crack as the gun went off, and it echoed in the corridor as it ripped through the previously sealed metal. James threw a flash bang grenade through the hole before using his hands to open the rip wide enough to step through. 

Priority: Pietro. James scanned his surroundings, looking for the boy. Before he could even complete the scan, he felt another punch impact him from behind. He let himself fall forward with the momentum, rolling back to his feet in time for the next punch to come at him from the left side. James let his metal arm soak up the force as he fired the gun with his right hand, straight at the doctor was still dazed from the grenade. 

Pietro reappeared in front of Doctor List, taking the bullet through his side. He clutched his ribs, slowly sinking to the ground. The doctor snatched him back up, and shoved a tiny pocket pistol in his ear. 

“Don’t move,” he snapped. “You see that light in his eyes-- it’s magic. He’s mind controlled. You’re with SHIELD, right?” The doctor sneered. “Your morals wouldn’t let you shoot a hapless victim.” He was growing more confident as James made no attempt to move. “I’m right, aren’t I? You won’t even shoot someone as useless as---”

Red fire invaded his mouth and glowed in his eyes as he screamed. 

“For you,” Pietro’s sister said, “death would be a mercy.” She walked towards him as he slowly sank to the ground, hands over his ears as if that would help him escape the pain. “But,” she continued, “unlike you, I am merciful.” She raised her hands, and the fire rose with them. “Your death will be swift.” She motioned, and he rose into the air, fire circling his throat. Then she smashed him into the ground, leading with his neck. There was a crack when he hit the floor, and then his body fell limp, never to rise again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment! I love comments! feedback means that i am more likely to include more of your favorite parts/ will let me clarify any unintentional confusion. 
> 
>  
> 
> follow me on tumblr @zarinthel/zarinthelwrites (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/zarinthel) (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/zarinthelwrites)


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